To The Closet
by muffed.morpheme
Summary: Could it be that the world has destined them to orbit, this girl and her star, so that they may find each other in the dark? Pre-Season One.
1. Chapter 1

To The Closet

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Summary: Could it be that the world has destined them to orbit, this girl and her star, so that they may find each other in the dark? Pre-Season One.

Disclaimer: I do not own to the rights to Glee, any of its characters, or its plot devices.

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"Don't you think it's about time you got yourself a boyfriend?" said Russell Fabray. "By the time your sister was a sophomore, she'd already gone through her age in men."

To his daughter, these words brought with them a guilt, as if it were somehow a fault, or weakness, of her own that caused this continual question to be brought up; that for some reason, at the age of sixteen, Quinn, Russell's second daughter, had breached a contract, destroyed some ethereal hope in her father's soul; that by not having a boyfriend she was somehow inadequate, undeserving of his love. And so befitting the oppressed and the oppressor, Quinn despised her father, the one who insisted upon destroying the semblance of unity her mother had worked so hard to build, only to have it broken down, again, by the tsunami of words spurting out of her father's mouth, as timely as Old Faithful, and as sulfurous, too; for this brief moment when all her vulnerabilities would so easily be exposed if it weren't for the fear Russell had instilled in his daughter's heart; so vile a thing it was, after all, to think, and believe, and feel differently than the one who sacrificed so much so that one may get far in life; make a name for oneself; step out of the death wheel of manual labor, canned food, and stove-heated bathwater.

"Quinn will start dating when she's ready," said her mother, while passing the salt shaker to her husband, "we just may have to wait a few years for that to happen."

Had she not been seated so soundly beneath her father's gaze, Quinn would have gotten up and hugged her mother dearly for all the reproach that was in her words, and, Quinn thought, looking at her father, seem to have put him in his place, despite the fact that I shall never be the one to stand up to him. There will be a day, her mother thought, in which I will not be able to defend my daughter; she will be left out in the world with this idea, this thought that such words are alright.

"The other parishioners are starting to talk! Besides, it's part of human nature, it's unhealthy to go this long without a relationship of some sort," Russell said with a slight hint of despair reaching his intonations, for he had long held the fear that his own wrongdoings would soon be next exposed, that in keeping the family off the radar, his skeletons, too, would remain untouched, hidden forever in that figurative closet. But eventually, all closets come to be full; he knew that, just as he knew that his daughter had little concern for what the church said of her behavior, despite outward appearances. But is anyone ever concerned with how their actions affect others around them? No, no one is more concerned about anyone than themselves: that is what drives people apart, after all.

"It's dinner time," said Quinn's mother, gesturing at the glittering table in an attempt to draw the conversation to a close, so that no one would take it to heart.

Quinn's mother, despite her fear of her husband, or perhaps through her understanding of the difficulties that arise when confronted with his unyielding ideas, always tried to come to her daughter's rescue, though this usually resulted in an argument, and unrest, both of which were certainly not asked for on this day where we are to give thanks for what we are about to receive. Amen.

"I am not ready for anything to happen," Quinn whispered to herself. She had found her voice, despite the terrible elements, and found it to be in what she had found herself in and through. And so by finding her voice, she had also seen herself losing it; she had seen herself give it up in favor of silence; she had seen herself give it up, yet it came back, and with vengeance, gushing all over her, as though she had digested something funny, or could not stomach cowardice. But what was this worth, in comparison to everything else? Am I the one to decide the fate of a family? In all things considered, a few more years will not make it a habit. She sighed, she lowered her head, acting the part to perfection of acquiescent servant prostrating oneself to the master's right; an act which required little false emotion along with will and control; all things which could be called upon unconsciously for all the times they were needed; and so getting in the act, she could not speak the truth, only the partial truth, of which she could bear to hear the argument against, and so shielding herself, she sighed and spoke mournfully,

_I am not ready for anything to happen._

_ I shall be a heroine of the peripheral;_

_ I shall not be accused!  
__  
_

so as to ensure that her father caught all the syllables even in her state of impaired hearing. Russell was shocked to say the least; it was one thing to hear such blasphemous words out of the mouth of heathens, but another entirely to hear it from his own daughter's. There was simply no excuse for such insubordination! Russell was ready to launch himself at his wife for teaching such things to Quinn (and he had, indeed, braced his arms on the chair), when he caught sight of his daughter in his peripheral vision-the only way he could look at the problem-and noticed the dejected hang of her head; how her eyes seemed to have lost their tender look; everything about her was tensed for a beating with words, but why? Where did these feelings come from? He simply wanted his daughter to do right; and what rightness could be claimed to be in his words if it brought such a change in demeanor, such a despicable sadness in his daughter, such a thing should not be. But who would blame him for wishing his daughter the same happiness that he had gotten from marriage? He could not help that he also wanted to see this happiness emerge; wanted to see the way his daughter took up more than literature; and he could not change time, she was getting older each day, and each day bringing more questions from every end, each day with no change in his daughter, seemingly stuck in a stasis of thought and feeling and opinion, for she has remained as steadfast in this belief over the ages, if not the opposite of his own expectations, for one would have thought that the arguments would have turned more into a complaint of agreement by now, but his daughter would never change and he did not have time enough to change, so where does his happily ever after come in?

"This isn't a fairytale; I don't want a Prince Charming on a horse." Quinn knew what she wanted, but there was never an ending to those nightmares, merely a continuous tortuous trail that her father seemed all too glad to pave with good intentions and to force feed his American Dream down the throats of everyone else. What is it I miss? Will I ever find it, whatever _it_ is? But Quinn could do nothing about the loss. (She was thinking how the stars sparkling so merrily in the sky were so very different from the lights in her eyes and how only some lights offered a chance for a reflection into the soul; and for that she was thankful.) She was unsure. She could just as easily abandon what she had concluded as her fate as she could continue with it; she had no one to tether her to, no one to lead her down one road or the other.

Be who you are and say what you feel. Be who you are and say what you feel. No matter the cause of repetition, Quinn could not say what she felt; she could not bear to disappoint her father; could not, now that she was so settled, now that she had set roots in the tale she had woven, in the fate she had defaulted on. If it had been any other time in her life, and if it had not been Christmas, and if her mother had not worked so hard at pleasing her father, she would have surely spoken. What lies. If he had had a son instead, if she had been brought differently into this world, then these worries need not be his. But he had a daughter and did not understand; he could not even fathom the thoughts in her head, so he gave up trying. But his God-how he loved Him- he knew His thoughts; knew of His dreams; knew of everything He wished for his daughter, for they were his own. He would put his own desires last; he would continue sacrificing for his family though they never thanked him for his efforts; he would do everything in his power to ensure his daughter's happiness, even if she didn't quite see its definition as he did, even if she had no care over what the parishioners were saying. He was powerless against their words; he could keep them abated no more than he could stop the deluge. The deluge of what? Of hatred or the Nile after two weeks of rain?

Quinn's mother would do everything in her power, but it would be as if she were doing nothing-her everything meant nothing- and like no other time in her life, she wanted to throw back the ties she had to her husband, her church, her faith; wanted to remove the leeches from her back; wanted to take out her anger in a physical way. I cannot; I shall not. But does she know? Can she tell I would do everything if only it would do something?

He will do nothing. She knew he would do nothing-he never did anything; he does not cut the meat (a jagged slice-not smooth enough for the table; more so, his plate); he does not speak; he will not move to protect his daughter and so she is left to believe his love is faulty. She loves him-she does-but sometimes she is not consciously aware, though it feels as though she is never aware; she feels like she is more than a mother because her husband will do nothing. Does he not see their struggle? A struggle against a belief so vile, yet one that must be respected, honored, and obeyed. He is not usually this contemptible, this concerned with the parishioners-she knows he has information they would all like to remain quiet, secrets everybody knows. But why, then, does he attack his own daughter with words? He must not see, for he could not, for no one would do that to their own kin. No one. Never. Slowly, so slowly, the negative words weigh her down, pulling, pulling, as if they had a physical weight; as if gravity were somehow affecting them; as if each word had a mass and was accelerating her towards the center of herself, her core, for she suddenly found herself out of breath, as though a hit had landed in her gut. She was only slightly aware of the table around her, her domestic duties there, as the waves tug the cargo of agony toward her once again, inescapable, tidal. A whisper of truth snuck past her tight lips,  
_  
_

_ And I, a shell, echoing on this white beach_

_ Face the voices that overwhelm,_

_ the terrible element,  
__  
_

so that only her daughter heard, a girl who needs someone standing next to her in this moment; some steadfast loyalty; a reminder of the world around her, so she does not sink farther into the depths of her eyes, into herself, so like her mother, a woman who almost drowned in the depths of her own desperation, in her drink, a woman whose life vest came with her daughter, who now needs her own lifesaver. Why won't her father offer her that? He is undoubtedly a man in every aspect save this. He lacks courage to question his own convictions, for he will certainly stand against his daughter to the last.

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Works Referenced:

_Three Women_: Sylvia Plath

un-cited quote: Dr. Seuss


	2. Chapter 2

To The Closet

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Disclaimer: I do not own to the rights to Glee, any of its characters, or its plot devices.

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_It_ came to her as the night fell, rustling through the remaining leaves, and pounding into her skull as some unwelcome guest lighting upon your residence in a storm and seeking refuge.

And she denied this seeker, turning her out to the rain, watching her stumble, then slamming the door to block the sight and dead-bolting against further disturbance, further trouble, further evidence that changes were soon coming and the rain would always fall no matter the front of sun being forced behind vast clouds.

Yet the seeker found the open window, crawling in, and when she thought that the seeker would strangle her, she found loving arms wrapped around her, soothing her, bringing her someplace she had never been.

Home, the thought whispered through the air, embedding itself in the psyche of the girl who had tried so hard to lose herself, lost the map, lose all sense of direction, even going so far as to lose sight of that shining star sparkling so brightly, so willing to guide her home.

She had unknowingly covered the star with ice, attempting to overpower its brightness, using words and glares to try and bring it from the sky, pull it down.

Could it be that the world has destined them to orbit, creating some celestial, other worldly, pull that would forever entwine them together, this girl and her star, her seeker, finding her in the dark?

This dream she had, this long lost wish she didn't remember attaching to a star, fell upon her in two ways: adding the stones and taking them away, crushing her chest and expanding it at once.

She imagined herself as the Grinch and the seeker whose mission it was to bring Christmas cheer back to her, for the seeker was just as short and spirited, and she would no doubt wear her hair in the way Cindy Lou Who did, never giving up on her until her most precious muscle was fit to flat line with the paces she had set.

But her father, how he despised her! Talking of her family as though there could be nothing worse, as though anything mutually loving was so far below this marriage he had looped her mother into it was worth tearing apart.

Quinn saw these things her mother put up with, saw how her father tensed with certain words, upon site of certain women, upon shaking hands with certain men in the parish; she knew her father was not the man he presented, but then, neither was she, she was not the daughter her father wanted, in both senses.

_It would be better if I were not his daughter_, she thought. _It would be better if I was either someone else's or something else entirely_.

But this is the life she had been assigned, so she would go to the city square and parade her greatest sin: being someone she was not, someone she despised, someone so vile she would never get to be who she had dreamed.

If she couldn't have her, she wouldn't allow herself any opportunity to even think to be enough, good enough, selfless enough, better than who she was portraying.

And this girl, she was all that was good, she was the light that Quinn always looked towards, but she was so very _there_ and Quinn couldn't have her, so she began to resent this situation, though began is defining the time loosely, for she never liked the situation once she understood exactly what _it_ was.

She thought her mother might know, might have cast a sympathetic eye towards her during certain conversations or upon receiving certain looks, might have pushed her towards dance and dresses and blonde and noses not for her own purposes, not to injure, but to save.

It was such a strange idea, her mother knowing, that someone might see _her_ and not just the shell that she presented, that someone was looking out for her.

But she was her daughter, certainly she would see?

Her daughter was her at one point, but with different dreams, dreams of a life out of Lima remained, but they differed in what that life contained: stars and lights or planes and trains.

Resigned to put the words away, no longer lost within daydreams of different worlds but in the harsh reality of what their lives have become and it pained her to know her daughter had given in so easily, had given up, and in doing so, became invisible to her seeker.

She knew who her daughter was looking for, looking out for, indeed, protecting her from more of her husband's vitriol, for if he knew, for he could never know, the words would become more than their parts (phonemes and morphemes and things she wished she forgot she missed like a limb, a vital part of her existence, gone with a few key phrases, signed papers, and the first of two daughters on the way).

She saw these things her daughter put up with, the things her daughter did, saw how her daughter tensed with certain words, upon site of a certain girl, upon entering church and seeing the verses for the day; she knew her daughter was not the girl she presented, but then, neither was she, she was not the wife her husband wanted.

She wishes it were different, wishes her daughter didn't have to fear, and not just for herself either, but for the girl and for her and for the family and its name, wishes she could get the courage to move on and make her husband move out, but she needed something, needed proof that he was the one at fault, needed him to know that and feel the guilt, she needed to get things sorted out, and quietly, to be able to move on without him, without a man in her life in Lima, which was a very hard thing to do without a death.

But her daughter was dying in a different way, and like hell would she wait four years to set her free, for anything could happen, and her daughter would likely not wait to set her plan into action, for she certainly had one, and that plan would bring her further from what she wanted, make it near impossible to gain back all the footing she had lost.

The plan would get set into action after Winter Break, she could not put it off any longer, she could not stall, simply looking, she had to speak, had to hear that voice directed at her, any way she could.

And she had to placate her father, for he was no longer satisfied with words and empty promises, head cheerleader or president of the chastity club, she had to bring another unwanted man into her life and make her star a protagonist in the story she was writing in her head.

Her father knew he was not needed any longer, knew he was kept for his money and his name (though if he were honest, it was soon going to be worth nothing, and his wife did have an upstanding family name to fall back on, though he would certainly never admit that aloud nor to himself with full sobriety, so as the secrets became harder to keep and the truth slowly crept up on him, so too did his drinking, urging his to acknowledge faults), and so he became restless, looking for places where he was wanted, things he could do to feel needed again, like he could be enough.

He knew they weren't the best choices, he knew he would be judging himself if he were to fully think about his actions, but other people were worse than he, less subtle, and he was confident his secret would be the last to fall, giving him a path to righteousness. After all, think of all the good he did for the community, trying to rid it of those men who paraded a so-called _marriage_ around, so that they didn't taint the children with their disease.

He knew he had to step up his work, too, because he had seen those cheerleading friends of his daughter's holding pinkies in the park one day on his way to an outing, had seen his daughter standing close to them, had seen her eyes when they walked past those men with their abomination of a daughter and he worried for his own daughter's safety.

His wife would do nothing, he knew; she would mention time and that Quinn needed plenty, but time was still moving, time never stopped running, and soon his errors would catch up to the family and they needed to stockpile protection from any other rumors, fill any faults that they could possibly have.

The time to act was now, before she got away, before things got any worse than they were, before he grew lax and slipped up, letting his wife know about his late nights at the office. The nights, she knew about; it was hard not to with the stuttered phone calls, the vague text messages, the strange perfume that would appear on his clothes and was not consistent enough to be one of his secretaries.

She knew, but refused to address the issue until she could use it to the best of her abilities, until she would be able live free from her husband, she only hoped her daughter could last that long, could hold off on her plan, hold off on landing past the point at which she could no longer turn back.

Her daughter was capable of anything, capable of inflicting damage on others, but also on herself (perhaps more so herself, for she would hate herself more for resorting to this, but would know no other way to deal, to manage with what she thought was wrong, was shameful, that it was so very wrong to just _feel_).

If her husband's words hadn't already done the deed, there would be something that pushed her over the edge, forced her hand to do what she truly did not want to do, what would remain the biggest regret of her life simply because it led to all the other regrets, and she would always take the blame rather than place it on her father, the root of what started it all (or was it the parishioners for questioning him, the church for suggesting these thoughts, the time, society, everything else that wasn't her or him or _her_).

There would be something that pushed her over the edge, just as there was something that struck her heart to flutter with flames so bright they obscured everything else, so that she wouldn't really see just what her motivation was, or so she could say she didn't know the motivation, because lying was easier when you didn't believe the truth yourself.

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References:

Story title: _To The Lighthouse_, Virginia Woolf


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